We go slowly, inch by inch.Imove first, then help her place her feet where mine have just been.Thewind tears at us without mercy, rushing along the cliff face and trying to pry us loose.Ityanks atElowen’srobe and snatches her hair, making those wild red curls lash around her face.Morethan once, she has to stop and press herself flat against the rock while a particularly savage gust screams past.
“Doing all right?”Icall over my shoulder, raising my voice to be heard over the wind.
“Yes,” she says, though she’s breathing hard.“I’mall right.”
But as the words leave her mouth, a sudden gust comes out of nowhere, stronger than the others, slamming into us sideways.Elowengives a little cry as her feet skid on the grit-strewn stone.Shepitches outward, arms flailing.
“Fuck!”Iroar.
I move without thinking, catching her around the waist with one arm and slamming my other hand against a crag in the cliff wall.Myfingers latch onto it hard enough to scrape skin from my knuckles.Themuscles in my arm and shoulder jump and bunch asIhold both our weights for one terrible second while the wind tries to rip her out of my grip.
Elowen clutches at me, breathless and wide-eyed.
“I’ve got you,”Igrunt.“Holdon, baby—I’vefucking got you.”
I haul her back against the cliff, keeping her pinned there with my body until the worst of the gust passes.
She’s pale now, her breath coming in quick little pants and her eyes wide.Ican feel her trembling where my hand is still locked around her waist.
“Are you hurt?”Idemand.
She shakes her head.
“N-no.Juststartled.”
“That was more than a fucking startle.”Myown heart is pounding hard now, rage and fear boiling together inside me.“Younearly went over.”
“I know.”Hervoice is tiny.“Thankyou for catching me.”
She looks so shaken that for a momentIconsider telling her we’re done—that we can come back later or try another way.Butthen her mouth firms into that stubborn little line of hers.
“I’m going on,” she says.“Ineed that feather.”
I stare at her for a second and then snort despite myself.DidIsay she was brave?Maybefoolhardy is a better word.Still,Iadmire her nerve.
“All right, then.Butstay right next to me,”Itell her.
This timeIkeep a hand on her wheneverIcan—at her elbow, at her wrist—once with my palm braced against the small of her back while she edges around a narrow jut of stone.Theledge feels a damn sight longer on the way to the nest than it looked from the air, but at last we make it.
Up close, theEmperorHawk’snest is even bigger thanIthought.It’sbuilt into the rock itself, wedged between two sharp outcrops that give it some shelter from the worst of the wind.Thebranches are twisted together so tightly they feel more like a basket than a pile, though one made by a giant.Theycreak faintly under the force of the wind but hold firm.
“Careful,”ItellElowen, taking both her hands as she steps from the stone ledge into the nest.Thewoven branches sink slightly under her weight but don’t give way.“Keepyour footing.”
She nods and lets me guide her in.Theinside of the nest is lined thickly with cloud-pine fluff—pale gray and coarse—with a few other plants and leaves scattered throughout.
ThenElowenspots the feather.
“There,” she says, pointing.
It’s lodged near the center of the nest—a single immense feather, longer than her forearm—gray-white with darker banding at the tip and a faint sheen that catches the light like polished metal.Itlooks almost too perfect to be real.
Elowen goes to it at once, crouching carefully among the woven branches.
“You see how it’s caught?”Iask, eyeing the way the quill has been wedged between two branches.“Youmay have to pull hard.”
“I can do it,” she says.There’sthat stubborn little line around her mouth again.
I watch as she reaches down and wraps both hands around the thick base of the feather.Shebraces one foot against a branch and tugs.Nothing.
